It’s like all I ever talk about, these days, is how much life sucks.
I’m having a bit of an identity crisis, lately.
Master’s hurt his back, and there is fuck all I can do to help him.
We need stuff in the house, but we can’t go shopping because I don’t drive and he’s not allowed. Though the whole process of going to the doctor, getting X-rays, and buying his prescriptions didn’t break us, as we feared, we still don’t have a lot of money, even though we’ve both done side work. Getting the things that would lessen his current pain and the chance of this happening again is so insanely out of our reach it’s depressing.
There’s nowhere comfortable for him to sit or lay in this house. We need a new mattress; the one we have is 11 years old. We need a new couch; the one we have is a shitty futon from WalMart that busted a weld the first time we sat on it because one of the rods was cut too short. We need better kitchen chairs so he can sit comfortably when he works, or to turn the front bedroom into an office. He needs new shoes that are not from WalMart or Payless so there’s actual support.
It all sounds very superficial, and makes me feel gross because I know people who don’t even have a mattress, but if you’ve ever had a back problem, you know how important good furniture and shoes are.
We need to lose weight. We’ve kinda gone backwards. Do you have any idea how hard it is to lose weight when you’re broke? Produce is outrageous and doesn’t last long. Forget protein powder (though I still have no idea why people drink protein shakes instead of eating protein-rich foods…we don’t), fish, beef that is leaner than 80/20, yogurt, granola…you know, all that “healthy” shit you’re supposed to eat. We can’t afford to go anywhere because gas is ridiculous, and he can’t walk around here because he doesn’t have good enough shoes.
It all makes me feel very useless. Like, what am I even doing here? I can’t take care of him the way I feel like I should be, and wouldn’t life be so much easier on him if he had one less mouth to feed?
And of course, then he gets mad at me, and gets all, “You’re not going anywhere, so you can stop coming up with reasons to run away.” on me.
And I’m just all, “Yes, Master.” while feeling very unslavelike because he won’t even let me help him get dressed. That I had to help him out of bed is so very humiliating for him, and I want to pull him to my chest and mother him like a man in his position should be, but it would hurt his back only slightly less than it would hurt his damnable pride.
So, I do what I can. I cook, and I clean, and I dote on him. I help him when he lets me, and try not to let him see how utterly helpless I feel right now. And I repeat that old mantra in my head. “He wouldn’t own me if he didn’t think I was a good slave.”